More than an illusion

More is left unsaid than what is written,the letters losing the string to be arrayed as words,simply because language comes with its share of barriers,the expression of the human mind an intricate process that often doesn’t progress beyond the stage of conception.The self-aborted foetuses abound in the minds , the stillborns and orphaned ideas wander along the streets of the literary universe,never to be taken under the wings of refuge of any parenthood.They sing their songs in solitude,the would-have-been-born alongside the orphans,their music of loneliness filling the atmosphere with a poignance ,that again escapes the expressive devices of literature. The artist has heard it so often ,that it has become a part of his existence ,the music of the lost souls,the expelled characters ,the mournful voices ,the touch of melancholy that infiltrates the morning air,but he hasn’t been able to convey his interpretations with the utmost of clarity that he desires.They are better left alone ,to drill holes in the human hearts wounding and paining the soul ,and draw tears of compassion from the lacrimal sacs;beyond that they defy the norms of creative expression ,they can only be symbolised but to depicted in their entirety.The unwritten poetry is entombed in the genes of humanity ,the painful beauty of the unexpressed is there in vivid detail in the collective human memory,though no individual would come to realise it.The verses spontaneously exude from the spring wells of antiquity,when groups of humans wandered the earth in search of a paradise,their legs obliging with the thoughts of the mind,to travel the coast ,comb the beaches ,disperse the genes and sow the seeds of what would become a civilisation in the future.There will have been some individuals who stood apart from the crowd,travelling in parallel universes ,where they must have encountered the foetuses of letters,the seeds of language to express their inner thoughts and display their emotions.But their lines are left unwritten,their concerns unspoken ,when their fateful journeys ended in perishing in harsh climes,with their bodies fossilised over time ,unaffected by the pangs for any form of spiritual salvation.The human journey is a continuum ,and though the man of today travels in the comfort of cabins in the skies ,his mind travels infinitely faster ,with his language and creative devices unable to capture the beauty of the moments,when the quicksands devour the emerging thoughts before they attain their artistic fruition.His thoughts run parallel to the abandoned ones of his genetic predecessors, who may have conceived the same concept on a fine morning ,even before the names of the days were invented.The urge to create may have been blighted by a storm of emotions or by a current of mood swings,leaving the thoughts at their budding stages,with no further scope to grow or flourish.The characters may have been baked and left half way through ,almost mirroring the creative process of the present day,and the characters from the mould ,with half of their skeletons exposed without any meat on the bones walk about as abandoned lives ,that serve no purpose other than to be a testament of human creativity and frivolity.

The art of today could well have been conceived in a very distant past ,even thousands of years ago ,only to be accomplished through shreds of input from the successive generations or even by a lightning flash of creativity in one person,who had been tasked by the master of time to fulfil a lost dream.The sole reason why man creates art or poetry is because he is fascinated by his own dreams,to the point of indulging in the intricacies of the delicate dream complex,fully realising that the illusion is momentary and the drama is enacted by a corner of the mind with its own cryptic language,mirroring the inner turmoils and yet-to-be comprehended sensory impressions.The closer he gets to the unpacking of the illusion ,the more fragmented it becomes ,with his brain playing hide and seek behind the trees of memory; he wonders whether the dream had been one his forebears had envisioned and not acted upon ,and whether his art and poetic lines are attempts to close the circle of serendipity.He is unsure whether posterity would decipher his art differently,sensing a rebellion against the helplessness of the human condition or as a token of praise for the fortune of existence. The applause and the appreciative murmurs set aside ,art is a personal excavation ,a deep shovelling of the ground to unravel what lies within,and just like how the soul remains unseen ,the true heart of the work is incompressible to the naked eyes of humanity.

Every form of art serves to overcome certain barriers that plague humanity,the work of the stranger acting as wake up calls ,as knocks on the closed doors of humanity.Art does enthrall and bring forth moments of joy ,so does it equally create undercurrents of uncertainty and insecurity within the individual ,provided the beholder has invested enough time to be glued on to the happenings on an otherwise blank canvas of a wall.The volumes of the unsaid words that would’ve created the longest epic ever to be conceived by mankind ,leaves an impression of loss and pain within the mind ,as the viewer puts himself in the artist’s shoes to experience the never-ending turbulence of a creative mind.The intellectual intercourse mediated by the pairs of eyes between the viewer and the work of art results in a product that is way grander in its magnitude and much deeper in its philosophical dimensions than the four corners of the wooden frame.The imprint is destined to be retained in the memory forever and to be transmitted to the following generations ,to wonder at and ponder over ,to think and deliberate over ,to see and seek ,knowing well that it would remain unrevealed despite the hardest and the most genuine of human efforts…